Without Words
by roane
Summary: John could tell a hundred things from the taste of Sherlock's mouth, things he never would have thought he could know.


It still surprised him at times, how quickly it had all happened. John was waiting for the inevitable identity crisis to hit, but so far, there was nothing. He was an otherwise straight man who was regularly shagging the hell out of his male flatmate and he was perfectly happy about it.

He wasn't sure what to call it. They were friends, obviously, and if John felt an exceedingly uncomfortable tightness in his chest when Sherlock took some stupid risk or another, that was normal, wasn't it? He would feel that way if any other friend regularly made a habit of scaling buildings or leaping across rooftops ten stories up.

Wouldn't he?

Tonight Sherlock sat across from him, focused on his laptop as John desultorily poked at his new blog entry on his own. They didn't speak, but they didn't need to. They'd reached a point where comfortable silences were as regular as ordinary conversation.

When Sherlock stood up, John thought he was just going to stretch, or maybe go to the loo, but instead he came over to John and pulled his chair away from his desk and turned it. Before John could say anything, Sherlock was straddling him in the chair, arms around his neck, staring at him intently.

"Um, hello," John said, smiling wryly. "Did you need something?"

"Yes." Just that one word, pitched just so, told John everything he needed to know.

He no longer felt pinned in place every single time Sherlock looked at him so intensely. He'd reached a point where he could meet Sherlock's gaze and hold it. It was another form of conversation these days. One that could go on for several minutes at a time.

_So how is it going to be tonight, Sherlock?_

_Slow, and very very thorough._

John shivered and reached up to pull Sherlock's mouth down to his. Sherlock's mouth was soft, and John mirrored that. There were no tongues, no groping, not yet. Just the quiet push-pull of breath from one open, soft mouth to another. John ran one hand up into Sherlock's hair and tightened his fingers, barely, just enough to cause a hitch in Sherlock's breath. Sherlock nipped at John's lower lip in return, one tiny escalation resting on another.

John felt his pulse rising, and felt the first slow twitch in his groin as the blood started flowing in that direction. But still, they just kissed, slow and careful. John could be very patient, and in the past weeks, he'd learnt how to read Sherlock's every reaction. He might never be as good at observing the general public as Sherlock was, but he felt certain no one could read Sherlock the way he could, not now.

Sherlock shifted his weight on John's lap, not quite a squirm, but close. John brushed the tip of his tongue against Sherlock's upper lip, and felt the quiver that passed through Sherlock's body in return. He smiled, then traced the open edges of Sherlock's mouth, the hand in Sherlock's hair tightening a fraction more as he settled his other hand firmly in the small of Sherlock's back.

John could tell a hundred things from the taste of Sherlock's mouth, things he never would have thought he could know: how long since Sherlock had slept, if he had sneaked a cigarette with Lestrade during the last case, even how aroused Sherlock might be getting. Logically, John thought there might be something to do with enzymes or maybe pheromones transmitting as taste/smell. Whatever it was, it was a part of knowing Sherlock, blood and bone.

When Sherlock's tongue touched his, John knew that they might last in the chair for another fifteen minutes before clothes would have to start coming off. If he tried, John might be able to stretch it to twenty. He was game for trying, anyway. He opened his mouth and let Sherlock inside, feeling the rolling warmth through his body as Sherlock teased his mouth, small darting strokes of his tongue, his lips leaving John's to press soft, kissing licks over his cheekbones and jaw. John opened his eyes when he felt the heat of Sherlock's palms pressing to either side of his face, those long, elegant fingers curling up over his cheeks and ears. John felt caged, but delightfully so, held in place while Sherlock tasted John's mouth.

They were both breathing heavier now, breath interspersed with wordless murmurs of encouragement, soft sighs. John closed his eyes once more, and tilted his head up to Sherlock, relaxing into his touch. While Sherlock nipped and tasted at John's mouth, John brought his hands down to join together in the small of Sherlock's back, pulling him in even tighter.

It went on, Sherlock growing slowly more ardent until his hands left John's face to brush through the short strands of his hair. John could feel the heat of Sherlock's palms against his scalp; he already felt as if his thoughts were burning away, now he imagined he could hear them sizzling. Sherlock shifted in his lap once more, and this time there was a definite, deliberate press of his hips against John's, and Sherlock gasped softly against John's ear.

Still no words, but instead Sherlock curled tight fingers into John's hair, not quite long enough for him to pull, barely tugging at John's scalp. It was enough. John lowered his mouth to Sherlock's neck and started to suck an inch or two away from his collarbone, tasting salt and smelling the sweetness of Sherlock's shampoo. Sherlock bucked against him then, and John revised his estimate down to perhaps another five minutes in the chair, at least if Sherlock had his way.

John sucked and bit at the skin under his mouth, drawing the blood up under the surface. The mark would darken later; every time, John felt a thrill in the pit of his stomach to have staked a visible claim on Sherlock, one that Sherlock wouldn't bother to hide from anyone. John mouthed over the prominence of Sherlock's collarbones, barely nudging his shirt collar aside.

That wasn't enough for Sherlock. He broke first, and reached up to unbutton his shirt and give John more room. John chuckled, and let Sherlock undress as much as he wanted—in this case, he only unbuttoned the first three buttons of his shirt. It was enough to tell John—John, who understood Sherlock so well—exactly what he wanted. John slipped his left hand inside Sherlock's open shirt and curled up around his shoulder, not pushing the shirt away, not yet. He dug his fingers into the muscle while he kissed along the opposite side of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock swayed against him with a low groan, and John felt some of the tension leave the muscles under his fingers. He dragged his fingertips across Sherlock's skin, down over the slight curve of pectoral muscles until his fingertips passed by a nipple without brushing over it.

John lifted his head from Sherlock's neck as Sherlock leaned to him, and their mouths met, open and hard. Sherlock started clutching at the back of John's jumper, and John slowly teased his thumb over the peaked flesh of the nipple he'd avoided a moment before. Sherlock jumped in a most satisfying manner, and John knew what was coming next.

Sherlock slid off his lap, keeping his mouth on John's and his arms around him, pulling John to his feet after him. John allowed himself to be led, tugging the tails of Sherlock's dress shirt out of his trousers.

By the time they reached the door to Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock's shirt was on the floor behind them, and John's jumper had followed. Before they reached the bed, John's button-down shirt was open. Before Sherlock could pull it off of him completely, John nudged him against the edge of the bed, slowly pushing Sherlock down onto the mattress.

Their eyes met, and Sherlock gave him a brief flash of a smile before settling back against the pillows and watching him. John shrugged out of his shirt, then knelt onto the bed beside Sherlock. He looked over Sherlock's long, lithe body and felt an unaccustomed warmth bloom in his belly and spread up through his chest. He swallowed and licked his lips before leaning down over Sherlock to press a kiss to his forehead, both cheeks, then finally his mouth. Sherlock pulled him down so they lay chest to chest, and the kissing started all over. Slower again, the slide of mouth on mouth intensified by the press of skin on skin, it made John feel light-headed at the sensation. He could feel Sherlock rolling his hips beneath him, slow and even, and was reciprocating even before he could think about it.

John was unable to bear the layers of cloth separating them any longer. He reached down and pinned Sherlock's hips with one hand, while he unfastened Sherlock's belt and trousers. Sherlock stopped kissing him long enough to arch his neck and sigh. They worked together wordlessly, Sherlock lifting his hips without prompting, letting John draw away the last of his clothing. John slipped out of his trousers and pants and then came back to stretch atop Sherlock, sliding his hands up along Sherlock's narrow ribcage. Their bodies slid together and John felt the tip of his erection catch under Sherlock's balls before springing free. He dragged his hips slower, feeling the catch and tug of skin against skin as their cocks brushed together, pushed away, brushed together again. John leaned down to kiss Sherlock then looked at him with eyebrow arched. Sherlock reached out with one long arm to grab the bottle of lube that had taken up residence on the bedside table. John didn't ask, but waited to see what Sherlock would do, what he wanted—although judging from the way Sherlock fluttered his eyes closed each time John's cock brushed against his, John thought he might already know.

He wasn't wrong. Sherlock poured a bit of the lube into his hand, but not nearly enough for any sort of penetration. John watched as Sherlock reached down between their bodies and wrapped his long, long fingers around both erections. He had to fight to keep his eyes open as Sherlock stroked up and down twice, the movement more for business than pleasure although it left both of them gasping. John wanted to say something, "Sherlock" or "yes" or "please", but he kept quiet, dragging his eyes away from Sherlock's hand in order to focus on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock wasn't looking at their cocks, newly slippery and trapped together; he was watching John's face as if it were a puzzle to be solved. John smiled, feeling the slow pull of his lips as they curved as an almost sensual thing unto itself, as if the shape of his mouth would give away all of his secrets to Sherlock, and John was teasingly, willingly handing them over, one by one. He pulled on Sherlock's shoulders to drag his own body up, and parted his thighs. Sherlock tilted his cock down until it slid into the space between John's thighs, curving up and coming to rest behind and underneath John's balls, between his thighs and brushing his perineum. John closed his legs and nestled between Sherlock's, trapping the hot, hard length of Sherlock's cock between the muscles of his thighs. He wasn't sure which of them groaned the loudest.

For John, it was a slow tease, each rocking thrust of Sherlock's hips rubbing the sensitive skin between his legs, the tip of Sherlock's cock barely reaching the cleft of John's arse. At the same time, his own cock was trapped between their bellies, aching and slick and getting wetter with each thrust. Best of all was being able to look down into Sherlock's eyes, to see them darkened and glazed over with hunger, to see his own expression reflected back at him. John leaned down to kiss him, tasting the sweat of Sherlock's upper lip and fighting the urge to lick up every bead of sweat he could see.

The two of them worked together in bed the same way they did everywhere else: Sherlock demanding of John, John anticipating Sherlock. Sherlock was greedy and John wanted to give, and it made them a perfect match. _A perfect match._ The thought caught him off-guard even as he was riding Sherlock's body, feeling the friction between his legs and against his cock. He was so startled he nearly stopped moving, driven on only by instinct and need. John looked again into Sherlock's eyes and called himself a bloody idiot for missing the obvious. He leaned down and kissed Sherlock again, sliding his hands up along Sherlock's arms until he found Sherlock's hands, twining their fingers together above Sherlock's head. Sherlock's legs tightened around his, and they were pressed together down the entire length of John's body.

The kiss was a gasping, messy thing. John kept his eyes open and found that Sherlock did the same, their gazes locked as they panted into each other's mouths, as their hips rolled and slid together. It was shockingly intimate, the visual connection almost too much on top of everything else. John didn't shut it out, and felt a kick in his chest when Sherlock didn't either. His entire world drew down to a single pair of silver-ringed dark eyes, and a gasping voice that was starting to break into soft groans. John could see Sherlock's lips starting to form a word, just one, and he leaned down to stop it with a harder kiss, squeezing his thighs tighter until Sherlock arched under him and cried out instead.

John felt it building in his hips, the blossoming tension spreading from his centre out, waiting for the final push to tear him apart from the inside out. He got there before Sherlock, but only just, coming with a quiet, wordless cry, too shaken to manage anything louder. The pleasure of it burned and grew, paradoxically increasing as he spilled between their bodies, making the glide of skin on skin even easier. Sherlock tightened his hands around John's and finally closed his eyes, tilting his head back into the pillows as he twitched and pulsed between John's legs. They lay collapsed against each other, panting. John didn't want to let go of Sherlock's hands, but did when Sherlock moved to wrap his arms around John. That was new. Snuggling wasn't something they did, not after, not ever.

Sherlock rolled them both over so they lay on their sides facing each other. John felt like he should say something, anything. He didn't know how to say it. Instead he did what he always did, reaching for a flannel from the stack beside the bed and cleaning them up, never straying too far from the circle of Sherlock's arms. He settled back down, expecting that Sherlock would leap from the bed, or start talking. He did neither, and John felt that curious warmth in his chest again. John tried to figure out when 'living with Sherlock and occasionally shagging him' had turned into 'desperately in love with a mad bastard', and gave it up as a fool's game. Whenever it had happened, now that he'd seen it, he couldn't shut it out.

Sherlock nudged John onto his back and sprawled on top of him. He leaned down and nipped John's earlobe, breathing just four words: "It's not just you."

John smiled. Of course Sherlock had seen it too.

Sherlock back and gave John a slow, wicked grin before starting to press kisses over John's chest and shoulders, slowly inching his way down John's body. Whatever else Sherlock needed to tell him right then, he didn't need to use words.


End file.
